


this time, with feeling

by TheResurrectionist



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Pre-Slash, abuse of champagne glasses and journalistic integrity, inspired by a scene from Billions, the couple that defends their secret identities together stays together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 21:33:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13667721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheResurrectionist/pseuds/TheResurrectionist
Summary: Sometimes, you have to put on a show for the cameras.(basically a rewrite of the "pretend we're having an argument" scene from Billions)





	this time, with feeling

**Author's Note:**

> You can find the Billions scene [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E765zGG4GLQ), which I definitely recommend checking out.

 “--and Senator, do you think you could elaborate a little on that last point?”

Clark held the recorder closer to the man’s mouth, praying the senator’s response would be close to audible this time. The sleeve of his tuxedo jacket strained around his forearm, painfully short.

“Why, yes, I think the oil exports in Montreal really do need to be taken into account--”

The ballroom was a disjointed mess of half-shouted conversations, crowding into any available space. Tuxedos and full-length dresses took up crucial real estate, preventing most movement across the room. Waiters pressed through the masses dutifully, trays of glasses held far above their heads.

Clark shook himself, remembering to lift the recorder again. The senator was still speaking, frowning at the microphone as his date rolled her eyes.

“And, Senator,” Clark cleared his throat, hearing the crowd’s volume shift. “--when you say that Bridge GE needs to be more transparent about its purchasing techniques, do you mean--”

“ _Clark Kent!”_

It was Bruce’s voice, overlaid by drunkenness, splitting through the murmur of the crowd easily. Clark turned, his hand dropping.

The billionaire was halfway across the room, pointing dramatically. He was dressed in a rumpled tuxedo, missing his tie. His hair was carefully mussed, half of it plastered against his forehead, the other half sticking straight up.

“Senator, I--”

“ _Kent!”_ Bruce yelled, shoving past a waiter. He grabbed two glasses from the tray, stumbling slightly. Champagne sloshed across the rims, splattering his suit. “I need to speak with you!”

“Excuse me,” Clark said to the senator, pocketing the audio recorder. He stepped towards the billionaire, arm outstretched. “Mr. Wayne--”

“ _Outside,_ Kent!” Bruce thundered, his face twisting. He staggered towards the balcony, not looking up. “ _Now!_ ”

Clark pushed aside the french door to the balcony, nervous at the display. He stepped onto the porch, hesitant.

_Where is he going with this..._

“Close the fucking _door_?” Bruce said loudly, his voice carrying back into the ballroom. On the other side of the glass, the gala attendees were frozen, mouths gaping at the display.

Clark pulled the door shut, turning to face his friend. If this was a front, he was utterly confused.

“Are you going to tell me what this is--”

He ducked just in time. A full champagne glass soared past his head, crashing into the exposed brick behind him. It shattered, splattering liquid across the porch. There was a muffled _oooh_ from the other side of the glass.

For a moment, he was frozen, spluttering.

“What the  _hell,_ Bruce?”

“Pretend we’re having an argument.” Bruce gestured at him wildly, his voice hushed. Finally, up close, Clark could see the humor in his eyes. He raised his voice to a shout. “You _insolent_ piece of _shit!_ ”

He shook his head, struggling to keep up. “W--what?”

“Are you even _listening?_ ” Bruce moved quickly, stumbling forward until they were face-to-face. He pointed a finger between Clark’s eyes, dropping his voice to a whisper. “A reporter at the _Gazette_ put too many incriminating details together last night. Push me.”

“What?”

“ _Push me!_ ”

Clark shoved him, startled. Bruce staggered backwards, shock quickly morphing to indignation on his face.

“You call that a _push?"_

Clark waved at him, conflicted. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not even trying!”

They met again in the middle of the balcony. Clark caught a camera flash in the corner of his eye, well-aware that the gala had stopped to watch their little show.

“Reporter at the _Gazette?_ ” he prompted, frowning at Bruce. The billionaire was reaching for the second champagne glass. “You’re not going to throw th--”

He sighed, not even bothering to duck the flying glass this time. It bounced off his chest, covering him in champagne.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Oh,” Bruce staggered dramatically for effect, waving at him, “I most certainly  _did._ ”

Clark kicked the glass away, letting it roll across the balcony. “You know, this is a rental.”

“I’ll pay for it!”

“I was pretty sure you were going to!”

“I wouldn’t have had to throw it--” Bruce angled them towards the glass, nudging at Clark’s elbow so their faces were closer to the cameras. “--if reporters from Gotham could stop _digging_ for  _ten_ minutes, so I didn’t have to show up looking like an _idiot--_ ”

“Well, maybe you gave them something to find!” Clark said loudly, finally giving in and joining the charade. “You ever think of that?”

“You’re the one who’s making them suspicious. They think Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne are too _chummy_.”

“We are friends!”

“I’m not disputing that!”

“So what do you want me to do?”

Bruce scowled, leaning in.

“I’m going to poke you.”

“Okay.”

“Poke me back.” He pressed a finger into Clark’s chest, _hard_. “Do it.”

“I’ll poke you all gosh-darned day,” Clark growled, jabbing back at the billionaire. “Was that good?”

Bruce glanced at the french doors, scanning the crowd. “You need to swear more. That’s easier for the lip-readers.”

“I don’t swear.”

“You’re pissed at me, remember?” Bruce shoved him again, catching him off guard. He stumbled back a step. “You just had champagne thrown on you by an intoxicated Bruce Wayne. Most people would’ve decked him by now.”

Clark shoved him back. “When you talk about yourself in the third person, it weirds me out.”

“ _Good_.”

“So, how’s Alfred?”

“Alfred’s fucking amazing,” Bruce growled, leaning in. “He wants you to visit.”

“I’d love that!” Clark waved his hands, feeling extremely stupid. Was this how he argued normally? He’d have to take notes for next time. “Tell him I loved his lasagna last week!”

“I’ll do that!” Bruce shouted back, pointing at him. “How does Thursday sound?”

“I have an appointment with Senator Hutchley that evening!”

“Why the hell would you schedule that so late?”

“It was the only slot he had open!”

“How about Friday?”

“Usual time?”

“Yeah!”

Bruce turned away, clearly suppressing a smile. With his back to the french doors, he glanced at Clark.

“When you leave, you have to tell me to go fuck myself. _Very_ loudly.”

Clark recoiled.

“I’m not saying that.”

“We’re not supposed to be friends anymore, remember?”

“Ugh, fine.” Clark sighed, steeling himself for the camera flashes. “How’s Dick?”

“Dick’s doing good,” Bruce was looking him over, his eyes dark. “Make sure to the throw the recorder at me when you leave, too.”

“I’m not throwing it! I have hours of interviews on there!”

He ignored Bruce’s disappointed expression, grabbing the door and throwing it open. Cameras flashed as he stepped into the doorway, turning back to face the billionaire.

“Go screw yourself, Wayne!”

Bruce winked as the cameras flashed, the crowd surging around him. Clark pushed past his inquisitive colleagues, his cheeks burning.

When he was out of the ballroom, he stepped into a dark corner, pulling out his phone. He was still breathing quickly, unnerved by the attention.

 _You owe me_ he texted Bruce, fingers jabbing at the keypad. _Big time._

The reply came a few seconds later. His phone buzzed.

_Always._

He smirked, sliding the phone back into his pocket. Maybe a few hours of transcribing wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave me a comment, and let me know what you thought :)


End file.
